Cocktail Glasses
by Masquerading with Shadows
Summary: And everything is so much prettier when she looks through the golden liquor. Trina-centric.


_Mirror, Mirror,  
On the wall,  
Who is the fairest of them all?_

.

She's told to be quiet, ohjustbequiet, and not to ever, ever, ever talk (which probably makes sense, because talking only makes her lip gloss fade).

Oh, and she really shouldn't sing either.

_(Nobody wants to hear you sing about tragedy.) _

.

Sometimes, usually after a performance, with the feel of the stage beneath her feet still fresh in her memory and stars still in her eyes, Trina walks into her bedroom, the walls studded with rose pink and pictures of her, and finally just _lets go_. She clenches her fists as tight as she can, her manicured nails pinching the skin of her palm, almost trying to draw blood but never quite being able to make it. She stays silent, even though something inside her is just begging to scream, to be let out. She can even taste bile eating away at the back of her throat.

(But she still feels like e x p l o d i n g .)

After that, she dives for the protection of her bed, burying herself under the covers into a world of colourful and bright patterns that she dreams about – but hey, she's able to watch Tori live in a world surrounded rainbows (and it's _her _life). She hides under the covers until she hears her mum call her for dinner time, closing her eyes and still being able to see the shades of the sheets dance behind her eyelids.

(As a little child, before Tori was born, she'd dive under the cover while her mother was making the bed, watching and feeling the sheets fall back on her, like clouds, and looking at all the bright, bright colours. And only stars can touch the clouds.)

.

It's after Tori joins Hollywood Arts that she finds her bedroom is no longer good enough, that it does nothing to calm her. Her fingernails break through the skin, the bitter taste of bile is left stinging in her throat, and she has to use one of her (fluffy) pillows to muffle her scream.

So she looks for new ways to release her anger, because she's resourceful.

(And it's not like she really has anything else to do.)

.

Practise doesn't make perfect, it just makes work and the crowd boo her even more than normal. So she scratches that off her list.

Next, she tries cutting herself (shh!), because blood is pretty – just like her. The knife cuts, the skin breaks, the blood rises to the surface, and _ohit'seasy_. The blood is the same colour as her least favourite lipstick, and the scars fade to her favourite shade of nail polish, and her nails stop chipping because now she doesn't need to dig her nails into her palm, she's got something better.

She stops cutting herself after the scars stop healing, because the scars stop being pretty and she stops being pretty, and pretty started this mess.

(And the ninth time she does it, it all hurts so fucking much, and she's never been good with pain, and she still feels like she's going to explode into a pile of glitter the same colour as her lipstick.)

.

She doesn't diet, doesn't starve herself, even though she knows that everyone that appears on the glossy pages that she _oh_ so adores does it. She doesn't do it because somehow, it just doesn't seem her.

(But really, she knows that it's because she's too lazy to be an anorexic and too self-conscious to be a bulimic, and they'd still look better than her anyway.)

.

You think anyone would even care about her enough to _use_ her?

.

The underground world of Hollywood (though, technically it's really on the outskirts of Hollywood where the stars stop shining on a red carpet) is dirty and grimy, and leaves metaphorical stains on her hand as she tastes bitterness in the back of her throat. The Hollywood sign shines in the distance, but it doesn't match up with the smell of cigarette smoke and burning metal.

The people on the street never look her in the eye, only on the cracked pavement (and only a hundred and three steps ago she was walking down the Hall of Fame). Her high heels and painted nails are out of place (ohnotagain) here, and the only source of light being dimming fluro lights from shops and bars, and the glowing embers of cigarette butts (and she ohsoaware that she could end up on the streets at any moment now).

She runs away faster than she came – and she's back home within twenty minutes.

.

It's jealousy and the urge to sabotagesabotagesabotage that puts her into the state of denial. Her sister glows and she shines, and her dress sparkles as she twirls in the spotlight. She claps along with the audience, but her hands hurt afterwards, and she's biting the inside of her cheek so hard that she can taste blood while the audience cheers and cheers & cheers for Tori.

_Make It Shine._

(Make what shine?)

She does want Tori to get her promised happy ending (because she's not quite that heartless), but her nails are chipping and breaking as she grips onto the ledge and oh, she just needs some help, and pleaseohplease just shine the light on her.

.

She thinks about running away, but the heel of her shoes breaks, and she's right back to the door.

(And then she's Cinderella again, waiting for the glittering dress and the palace ball and the happily ever after.)

.

It's after another concert, which both she and Tori performed at, that she finds herself on the outskirts of Hollywood, near an old, rundown bar that's grey and dark, and doesn't go well at all with her bright lipstick and high heels. But she walks in anyway, ignoring the slight turning of heads as the door slams behind her (and it's so different to the blank looks she gets in Hollywood).

She orders a beer, forgetting the sound of the snort as soon as she hears it. The golden liquid burns her tongue and makes her fingers itch for water, but she takes another sip and looks through the liquid as she grits her teeth at the taste (_bitterohsobitter_). She finishes the rest of the glass and clenches her fists and waits for the ski to break and for her blood to spill, and somewhere she thinks she can hear a clock ticking away, signalling that it's time for her to explode.

She gets up as quickly as she can off the bar stool, but her head is suddenly dizzy and she has double vision and the colours are swirling&swirling&swirling all around her. And she nearly falls over, but she manages to catch herself on the bar bench and ignore the looks and the sniggers that pass her way.

She walks out of the door, her heels clacking against the hard, wooden floor, and suddenly, it's like the sound of clapping to her ears. Her pace quickens, but the sound and her dream collide, and soon she's positive that she's hearing a standing ovation in her hand (and oh, oh, won't you cheer for her?). And suddenly, the world falls away and the black curtain draws over the stage.

She wakes up with her nails chipped and her head sore, but somewhere on the back of her tongue, the liquid is bubbling and buzzing her senses awake.

.

Her entourage – she means friends, _sorry_ – takes her partying four weeks later. She sees bleached white leather lounges that blind her, the red bar chairs, and the for tall, elegant glasses that get stained by underage fingertips. She twirls around in her shiny pink dress and smiles, before laughing and falling down onto one of the red bar stools. Her eyes widen and reflect the golden liquid that gets passed into her hand (and her artificial sunset is now complete).

The champagne is lighter and kinder on her tongue, and it bubbles on her tongue and fizzes in her brain and suddenly everything is just golden – particularly by her second and a half glass. She feels like she should after a performance; dizzy, happy, bubbly, glittery, everything that Tori feels every night but she herself has never felt _once_.

And suddenly, she feels safe enough to open her mouth, and the drunken and ignored truth comes out (and they _still_ all think that she's a liar).

She finds that she can't quite focus on everything bad that eats away at her brain, chipping away at her perfect nail polish and tinkling the slender glass in her elegant palm. It's a golden haze, and while it doesn't make her troubles go away, it makes her smile and gets her distracted – and really, that was all she ever wanted.

She lets her lipstick smudge on another glass.

.

(She finds the glitter and the happiness in her glasses, in the rainbow liquids, not on the stage.)

* * *

**Disclaimer: Victorious is not mine. Reference to _Disloyal Order of the Buffaloes _by Fall Out Boy. **


End file.
